The Kiss
by Lawson227
Summary: Wee little thing. Carlton and Juliet undercover. The title pretty much says the rest. I have no idea what this is. EDIT: Well, the muse demanded more, as did several of you, so who am I to argue? Still don't know exactly what it is. It also occurred that the basic premise is not dissimilar to JUST BECAUSE, but only in that it starts with a kiss. Otherwise, completely different.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, the usual. Got nothing. Own nothing of _**psych.**_ Just playing. Don't even know what this is.

* * *

Her mouth was firm beneath his. Firm, and once he overcame his initial shock, soft. Molding to his with an ease he would never have imagined. Okay, imagined, but never _believed_ would happen.

Warm.

Tasting faintly of wine and the strawberries he'd fed her. Dipped in a dark chocolate that had left behind a smear on the curve of her lower lip that he'd wiped away with the pad of his thumb.

Just before she'd leaned up and kissed him.

Gradually, she drew back, her gaze steady on his face, her hand still holding his. As if afraid he might bolt.

Mindful of their surroundings, Carlton swallowed and very quietly said, "What was that?"

She smiled and took another sip of wine. "A kiss."

Unable to stop himself, despite their surroundings, he rolled his eyes. "I _know_ that, O—" He caught himself at her look. "Juliet."

He swallowed again—or rather, tried, since his mouth was so dry, he wasn't even sure he could spit on command. With that sixth sense she seemed to possess where he was concerned, she silently offered him her glass, holding it to his lips. Covering her hand with one that shook only slightly, he tilted the glass just far enough to take a sip—imagining he could taste the essence of her in the wine, since he could swear his hadn't tasted at all the same.

"Why?" he asked when he could speak again.

She shrugged. "We are undercover," she said very softly, just in case anyone lurked nearby

"Not _that_ undercover," he protested with as much vehemence as he could muster while maintaining a soft tone and what he hoped was a neutral countenance.

She sent him a dark blue, raised-eyebrow glance over the rim of her glass as she took another sip. After she swallowed—and how did she make even _that_ prosaic an action look sensual, dammit?—she said, "We _are_ supposed to be married."

"Yeah, for the past ten years."

"And couples who've been married for ten years don't kiss for the hell of it?"

"I wouldn't know," he muttered, looking around to see if this shindig had a bar offering more than wine. He definitely needed something stronger. Like a sledgehammer.

"I like to think they would," she said even more softly. "I'd hope they would."

He couldn't say what he wanted to say. No _way_ would he ever say what he wanted to say. So he settled for repeating, "I wouldn't know," followed by a slightly gruff, "Any thoughts?"

"A lot of them." Her voice was very, _very_ soft as she stepped up beside him, tucking her hand in his elbow and leaning her head on his shoulder. All acceptable under the guise of their cover. Certainly nothing he would consider odd or out of the ordinary under the guise of their cover—at least, he wouldn't have prior to The Kiss.

Now, however…

Increasingly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation—hell, the case—was taking, he tried to steer them back on track.

"I meant about possible perps, O'—" This time he caught himself before she could hit him with another one of those penetrating dark blue looks. Even though they were well away from the other partygoers, even though he was speaking far too softly to be overheard, calling her O'Hara nevertheless felt wrong.

Especially now, after The Kiss.

"Juliet."

"I know what you meant, Carlton."

"That makes one of us."

For a few moments they stood there, surveying the ballroom, trying to ascertain who, amongst the staff or well-heeled guests, might possibly be kidnapping and murdering other married couples. Couples who'd been happily married more than ten years. Couples where the wife was substantially younger than the husband and who had all visited this resort to celebrate an occasion of some sort. This resort that was renowned for its monthly "Happy Couples" weekends. Weekends after which couples routinely went missing.

Something was hinky for sure.

And that was before The Kiss.

"Carlton?"

"Yes?"

"Is it something you'd like to do again?"

Forget spitting on command. He wasn't certain he'd be able to pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

Ever. Again.

Why was she doing this?

Why now? And so help him, he knew it wasn't because they were undercover.

But what other excuse could she possibly have?

"Juliet, please don't ask me to answer that question."

Nodding, she remained silent, simply leading him out to the floor where she turned herself into his arms for a dance. The music was slow and sultry and allowed them leisurely survey the entirety of the ballroom as they gently swayed and turned. In theory, at least.

How could he concentrate with Juliet in his arms, her hand folded in his and resting over his heart, which she had to feel, beating in time with the steady rhythm of the upright bass while around them, violins swelled and a guitar provided a sweet aching melody tinged with a hint of the blues.

Fitting, Carlton thought.

As the song drew to a close and faded away on a delicate piano flourish, she lifted her head from his shoulder, the question clear in the ink-blue depths of her eyes.

_Please_, he pleaded silently, _don't ask me to answer that question._

Able, as ever, to read his thoughts, she smiled.

"I think you just did."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**AN: **So I woke up and had the beginnings of CH 2 in my head. So I guess we're going to forge ahead and see where this takes us. Spoilers for S7, especially _Lassie Jerky_ contained herein.

* * *

Juliet kept her hand tucked securely in the crook of Carlton's arm as they made their way back to their suite. She told herself it was to maintain the illusion of their cover. Any time they were in a potentially public space, they _had_ to be Carlton and Juliet—loving long-married couple.

So she told herself.

There was also the fear if she didn't keep hold of him, he might just bolt. Not unlike a skittish stallion spotting a break in the paddock gate and taking off for parts unknown.

Completely legitimate fear.

So she told herself.

But the truth?

The honest truth?

She liked touching him.

She liked the feel of Carlton's arm beneath her hand, warm and firm beneath layers of light wool and crisp cotton. Liked the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek as they danced. The way his mouth felt against hers, unyielding at first with surprise and gradually relaxing to fit hers so perfectly, the tip of his tongue brushing hers, a whisper of a caress she was certain he hadn't even intended.

Most intoxicating, however, was how his breathing hitched ever-so-slightly when she touched him—matching what her own breath did.

She liked that very _very _ much.

Juliet had touched Carlton hundreds of times over the years—maybe even thousands—but it had only been in recent months that touching him had become… _more_. She knew the exact moment everything changed: in the woods. After she'd fished him from the grips of the icy river and wrapped him in the heat retaining emergency blanket and dressed his wound, she'd wiped a smear of mud from his cheek. Not the one with the abrasions—that one she'd already wiped clean—but other side, where a smudge had streaked across the high, broad line of his cheekbone. There was something about that dark smudge marring his smooth fair skin that had bothered her no end. As if mocking with just how close he'd come to being lost to her. She'd had to get rid of it. Wipe away the one, stupid visible sign of his ordeal. As if in doing so, she could assure herself again he was really there and relatively whole.

He'd been talking as she tended to him—babbling, really, his focus on how Marlowe could _never_ know what had happened, since he clearly felt foolish at having stepped into a bear trap and subsequently tumbled into raging waters of the fast-moving river—but then Juliet had touched his cheek and for a moment, he stilled and went quiet. His gaze held hers and deep within the turbulent blue, she read his lack of concern that she'd witnessed what to him had been a shameful lapse in vigilance. She saw how little he cared that she was seeing him in such a vulnerable state. Knew he understood _she_ didn't consider what had happened as failure or weakness.

Carlton felt no need to hide from her.

Some would argue it was a product of many years' worth of partnership. They'd seen each other through so very much in seven years.

She knew better.

What she saw, deep in that pained and yes, slightly frightened blue gaze, was absolute trust.

Absolute trust from a man who simply didn't give such a thing.

_Ever_.

And that she'd very nearly lost.

Her fingers had trembled slightly as she'd wiped away the mud and resumed fussing, hoping to hide the sudden fear that had gripped her. And from that moment on, every time she touched him, had become… more.

At the door to the suite he paused to reach into the inside pocket of his jacket for the room key. Juliet took advantage of the moment and his lowered head to brush the fingers of her free hand against the line of his cheekbone, seeing again that offensive smudge of mud and feeling for a brief, terrifying second, the near deathly chill his skin had retained long after she'd wrapped him in the blanket.

He stiffened, but his breath hitched slightly. Just like hers.

"Juliet, what the hell's going on?" Despite the hall being utterly deserted, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "And please, don't say it's because we're undercover."

She sighed. It was time. Long past time. She knew, better than anyone, how much Carlton craved structure and order and understanding. Depended on it. Especially from her. And God knows, he, of all people, deserved to know the truth about… well, about everything.

Especially considering the part he played in… well, everything.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, keeping her voice as quiet as his. Tightening her fingers on the arm she still held, she waited for his gaze to meet hers. "I must seem completely insane."

A corner of his mouth curved upward slightly. "Kind of."

She smiled and resisted—just—the urge to touch his face again. To trace that faint smile she treasured. "Let's go inside."

Carlton's eyes widened, the expression in them so alarmed she felt a near-irresistible urge to laugh. An urge that faded as quickly as it had appeared, chased away by the heat that rose in response to the flare of desire that momentarily brightened his eyes to an intense flame blue before he obviously wrestled it under submission.

"So we can talk," she added around the low-pitched humming that had suddenly taken residence low in her belly. She hadn't been wrong. It had been impulsive and it had been a risk, acting on the instincts that been prodding at her in recent weeks. She'd been terrified, sure—she was _still_ terrified.

But she hadn't been wrong.

With a slight nod, he slipped the card into the slot, turning the handle as soon as the light flashed green. As he pushed the door open, he glanced down at her, the expression in his eyes clearly bemused, prompting her to pat his arm gently and nod in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion in response.

So occupied were they with each other, they made it fully into the room, the door swinging shut behind them, before the sense that they weren't alone hit both of them at the same exact moment.

An instant before being met with a cheerful, "Hey, guys! Wondered when you'd finally get back."

"What the _hell_—"

Juliet gaped at the sight of Shawn, sprawled across the sitting room sofa, the remnants of what appeared to be a substantial room service feast as well as the majority of the contents of the minibar littering the coffee table's surface and spilling over onto the floor. On the TV, a clearly 80s-era car chase through a tropical locale raged on —moments later, Tom Selleck as Magnum emerged from behind the wheel of a red sports car, gaudy Hawaiian shirt and mustache competing for screen dominance.

Tilting his head back, Shawn drained the remnants of his soda before fixing them with an avid hazel gaze. "I mean, isn't it past Lassie's bedtime?" He punctuated the question with a knowing smirk and accompanying raucous belch.

"Jesus Christ."

"Carlton, no—" Juliet held Carlton's wrist in a firm grip above the small of his back. In deference to their cover and surroundings, he'd foregone his beloved shoulder holster for a more discreet back holster. Good thing for Shawn, seeing as it slowed Carlton's draw time by a fraction—not much, but just long enough. Not that she judged him for the impulse, mind—not at all. She just wasn't certain the city would pony up for replacing a bloodstained sofa.

"I don't want to have to explain the body, do you?" she muttered.

He huffed out an obviously exasperated breath, but the tension in his arm eased. Juliet could have released his wrist then, knowing Shawn was safe—at least from Carlton—but did she?

No, she did not.

At least, not immediately. She did relax her hold, however, just enough to slide her hand the rest of the way down to his where she wrapped her fingers around his in a brief clasp, all well out of Shawn's sightline. Even if one took into account the suite's mirrors, which she had.

It was her turn for her breathing to hitch slightly as his fingers tightened around hers, warm and firm, even as the brief blue glance he sent her way shimmered with a thousand questions.

They really needed to talk.

Returning his attention back to their unexpected guest, he barked, "Spencer, what the hell are you doing here?"

His eyes widened in disbelief. "The case—d'uh."

Juliet felt her stomach lurch as she watched him reach out with his somewhat dingy sock-clad foot and curl his toes around a thankfully still-wrapped Zagnut bar. After unwrapping it—with his hands, thank God—he crunched into the candy and mumbled, "And what's with leaving me behind, yo?"

"What do you mean what's with leaving you behind?" she demanded.

Beside her, Carlton tacked on an acerbic "Yo," that had her swallowing an unexpected laugh. Behind his back, his fingers squeezed hers again, reminding her she'd yet to let go.

Then again, he hadn't let go either.

Shawn _would_ notice the absence of their hands after too long, however, so after one more squeeze—for reassurance—she reluctantly released her hold on Carlton.

"I mean," Shawn said, speaking slowly, as if to children who were too stupid to live, let alone understand, "that you guys didn't stop to pick me up on your way out of town. And you didn't leave me any intel. Vick wouldn't even tell me anything. Had to figure out on my own what resort you were at and for those playing along with the home game, what's with the name?"

"We are undercover, Shawn." she gritted out from between clenched teeth. "That's why you didn't have any—" she air-quoted with her fingers, "_intel_. No one does, except for Vick. " She narrowed her eyes. "And what's wrong with the name?"

"O'Leary?" He shrugged and wrinkled his nose. "Nothing, I guess. Perfectly good name. But why are you using it? And why wasn't I told about any of this? I had to improvise at the front desk. Told them I was your adopted cousin, in town for the wedding since Lassie's sex change was complete and you guys could finally make it legal."

This time, Juliet managed to still Carlton's instinctive movement toward his weapon with a look.

"Oh, dear God, please, let me shoot him," Carlton pleaded. "Just a little."

She pinched the bridge of her nose feeling the sudden onset of the low-grade headache she hadn't realized had become such a constant until the source was removed.

"Shawn, are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Oh, God," she sighed, moving her hand to the back of her neck where elves were hammering steel spikes into the boulders passing for muscles.

"Dude, I'm kidding." Shawn snickered. "You mean after all this time you can't tell?"

"No," she replied, her voice flat and cold.

For a moment, Shawn looked taken aback—at least enough for him to say, "Relax—I didn't say anything. I got on the concierge's computer when he was called away on an emergency involving mannequins cavorting in the hot tub."

His smirk made it clear who had engineered that "emergency."

"Found you in the guest registry—easy since you're using your real first names and the department-issued credit card—and I made myself a copy of the key card." His brows drew together as patted his pocket. "Huh… wonder where I left it—no matter." He reached into his shirt pocket. "Made a spare, too. None of which I would have had to have done, if you'd just kept me in the loop. So if your cover's blown, really, it'll be all your fault."

Everything about his demeanor screamed accusation and betrayal and Juliet was hard-pressed to recall exactly why she'd kept Carlton from shooting him.

"You weren't kept in the loop because there was no loop for _you _to be kept in on. You are in no way supposed to be part of this case. You're not even _on_ this case. At least, not as far as I know."

She fought the temptation to pull her phone out and check it for email or messages from Vick, because she _knew_ there was no way Vick would allow Shawn onto this case. The Chief might be critical of Carlton's undercover abilities—a criticism even he would agree was justified, albeit under the influence of a double shot or three of bourbon—but even she had admitted the only reason Shawn had ever succeeded at undercover work was not so much because of any skill at assuming another persona, but more because he was able to play a variation of himself.

The same as Carlton was doing for this case—a role that Shawn would most assuredly _never_ be able to assume. Undercover or otherwise.

Shawn rolled his eyes, clearly unconcerned as he popped the final bite of Zagnut into his mouth. "I'm always on the case, Jules," he said, his words somewhat garbled by coconut and peanut butter. "Only way things get solved, especially where Lassie's involved, right?"

"Juliet," she all but snarled, feeling Carlton's sudden surprise rolling off him in waves, substantial enough to overwhelm his usual irritation at Shawn's callous dismissal of his professional abilities.

"Huh?"

"I told you," she said, the tiny muscles in her jaw twitching almost painfully, "to call me Juliet. And my partner's name is Lassiter."

Sandy brows rose. "You were serious about that?"

Carlton's surprise turned to outright curiosity as his narrow gaze darted between her and Shawn and back to her, but he remained otherwise silent.

Dammit. They really, _really_ needed to talk. She was a fool for not having brought this up before, especially once the case had demanded they take on these roles. Which hopefully, had not been blown by Shawn's untimely appearance.

"Never mind." Restless, she strode to stand in front of Shawn. Crossing her arms, she stared down at him. "Have we been compromised?"

"What?"

"Good Lord, Shawn, must I repeat every damned thing? Has our cover been compromised? Have you completely screwed up the case?"

He clicked his tongue against his teeth in that _tsk_-ing noise that grated against her nerves as viscerally as if her skin was being rubbed against an actual grater. She could only be grateful that Gus hadn't accompanied him, since once one started _tsk_-ing, the other would respond and it would be like listening to a pair of gibbon monkeys on crack.

He _tsk_ed once more. "C'mon, son—you mean Lassie hasn't blown it by now?"

Before Juliet could reach into her purse where she had a smaller caliber version of her service revolver hidden, Carlton spoke up. "Look, if you're not going to let me shoot him, I'm going to go take a shower. Figure out how badly he's screwed things up and then get rid of him. There's a shovel in the trunk of the car."

Juliet watched as he raked a typically impatient glance over the back of Shawn's gelled head and disappeared into the suite's bedroom. And even though he had to have been mightily annoyed, she noted how he still took care to carefully shut the door, mindful to not attract any undue attention. Raised voices, a slammed door—little things that could give lie to the illusion they were working so hard to maintain. An illusion Shawn may have already thoughtlessly destroyed for whatever stupid-ass reason might be floating around beneath the pineapple-scented goo on his head.

As the suite's powerful shower roared to life, Shawn smirked. "Only _one_ bedroom, I noticed. And _one_ bath. With both your things, including Lassie's military garters, stored so neatly in that _one_ bath and _one_ bedroom. That has only _one_ bed. Anything you want to share with the class?"

"What are you, twelve?" she hissed, doing her best to keep her voice down and her hands at her sides, rather than clenched around his pudgy little neck. The thought of his grimy, nacho-scented hands pawing through their things—

She barely paused to consider the possessive plural that had so naturally flowed before she plowed on. "And might I remind you, _you're_ the one who very nearly blew my cover—multiple times—last case I worked undercover."

He regarded her, the light in his eyes so gentle and almost merry. So damned condescending. "Never in question, Jules."

"I swear to God, Shawn, call me that one more time, and I will shoot you." She was pretty certain Carlton had a silencer in the trunk along with the shovel. "It's not a nickname I was ever _that_ fond of and now that we're no longer together, it's something you've lost all right to use."

"You're still insisting on this?"

"It's been two months, Shawn—I'd think even you would be able to—" once again she air-quoted with her fingers, "_divine_ that not only am I insisting on it, I mean it, with every fiber of my being. No second-guessing, no changing my mind in the morning, no backsies, no ring-around-the-rosie, no hide-and-seek—_nothing_." She began pacing, using the movement as a means by which to control her voice.

"I've upheld my side of the bargain. I've not said a damned word, I've continued to work with you when you've been assigned to our cases, I've acted perfectly pleasant and although I'm fully aware of your utter inability to recognize it as such, behaved in a completely professional manner. All I asked of you in return is that in private, you leave me the hell alone and that you not horn in on cases for which your assistance has not been requested."

"But that would cut my case load in… half, at least," he protested. "Maybe even by two-thirds!"

"Imagine that."

"And it was a bargain for which you set all the conditions, Ju—" He caught himself and as his eyes narrowed, Juliet imagined he was seriously considering how far he could push her.

_Go ahead, Shawn. Go ahead._

Very deliberately, almost mockingly, he finally said, "Juliet."

"I think, under the circumstances, I had every right to set all the conditions."

A flush stained his cheeks—whether anger or embarrassment, Juliet couldn't tell and really, didn't care. Honestly, she wasn't certain Shawn was capable of feeling embarrassment. She was damned sure aware he was incapable of shame.

"You never gave me a chance."

"You had seven years' worth of chances, Shawn. Multiple opportunities where you could have told me the _truth_." Hearing her voice rising and teetering on the edge of hysteria, she forced herself to take a deep, shaky breath.

"You're saying you would have been okay if I told you? Even before we started dating? Really?" The words lay unfurled in the gulf between them, a challenge.

"I don't know," she finally said. "And now we'll never know, will we?"

"Oh, I think we do." He bent and retrieved his shoes from beneath the coffee table. Pulling them on with impatient jerks, he stood and met her gaze. "I think we're seeing right now exactly why I could never have told you. You would never have given me a chance."

"That's all it is to you, Shawn? Really?" Heat flooded her face and her voice rasped in her throat, sharp and jagged with the effort of keeping her voice down.

"Well, you wouldn't have, would you?"

"Not with respect to the job, no." That, at least, she was absolutely certain of.

"And you would have gone running straight to Lassie with the information."

"Probably."

"See?" He tossed the word out like a petulant toddler. "And that would have been the end of everything."

"Don't you understand what all of your lies did?"

He stalked past her to the door. "They solved cases. Cases that otherwise wouldn't have been solved."

"That's a load of bull."

He stopped, his hand on the door and slowly turned, skepticism written in every line of his posture and a cold, calculating, almost mean expression on his face. She'd seen that expression before, she recalled, although it had been a while. Back in the early days of her partnership with Carlton, Shawn had worn that expression more often than not. She'd put down its absence, if she ever thought of it, to a thawing of the relationship between the two men. Now, however, she recognized its absence had been due more to arrogance combined with complacence on Shawn's part.

He thought he was _so_ smart.

And he was. Just not as smart as _he_ thought he was.

"Truth is, Shawn, Carlton and I could have solved every damned one of those cases for which you've received consultant's credit. Maybe it would have taken us a little longer because unlike you, we have respect for the law, but you don't possess a damned ability that sets you so far beyond us that we can't conceive of possibly achieving your same results."

She approached where he stood and reached past him to turn the handle and open the door.

"Since, you know, you're not actually psychic."

With a swift, practiced movement, she pushed him past the threshold and closed the door. Finally able to draw a complete breath, she swung the security bar into place and slid the chain home. They'd have to have new key cards issued, but that could wait until morning.

Now, she'd have to talk to Carlton.

Turning away from the door, she caught her breath.

Carlton stood in the opened doorway to their bedroom—and there was that possessive plural again she thought irrationally—eyes huge and blue and very, _very_ stunned.

"He's not _what_?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"You heard me."

His fingers tightened around the door jamb. "Humor me."

She sighed and leaned back against the door she'd so resolutely shut on the asshat and faced him, her eyes deep blue pools of calm as she very clearly said, "Shawn Spencer is not psychic."

Carlton's blood roared in his ears as Juliet stood before him, as cool and steady as he'd ever seen her, and understood—this wasn't some sort of sudden revelation. She'd known. But for how long?

"Why do you look so surprised, Carlton? It's not as if you ever believed it."

There was a bitter edge to her voice, one Carlton sensed was directed more at herself than at him. Which served to beat back the blinding surge of anger and dismay at the knowledge she'd kept a secret regarding Spencer from him—_again_—and prompted him to temper his tone as he said, "No. I never did. But you did."

Calm gave way to a distinct hurt he only caught a brief flash of as she lowered her head. Very softly she said, "Yes. I did." She laughed softly. "More fool me."

Silence fell between them as Carlton took in the slope of her shoulders and the subtle shadows her makeup suddenly seemed unable to hide and the methodical opening and closing of her hands at her sides. The veil falling away and allowing her exhaustion to show.

Dear God, how long had she _known_? And why hadn't she said anything?

That weariness now so visibly evident seemed to suggest it had been longer than a few days or even a few weeks. And while he was upset—damned upset, maybe even more so than he'd been after his discovery Juliet started dating the gibbering idiot—Carlton somehow managed to wrestle back his natural impatience and deeply-rooted instinct to arrest Spencer for any damned thing he could think of. It wasn't what Juliet needed right now.

Juliet.

Later, maybe, he'd marvel at how easily her name came to him. It had been O'Hara for so damned long. At first out of habit, then later by conscious effort, and later still back once again to being a habit. Or so he'd told himself. Had even believed it with every atom of his being.

Then earlier tonight she'd kissed him, shattering every illusion with which he might have thought himself fooled. He still had no idea why she'd done it and had had every intention of figuring out why she'd done it and now he might have some inkling of an idea as to why she'd done it but he still really wasn't at all sure _why_ in the hell Juliet O'Hara had kissed him.

None of which mattered right now.

Because right now, figuring out why she'd kissed him was secondary to what Juliet needed. What she _needed_ was for Carlton to be the partner and friend he hadn't been capable of being when he first learned of her relationship with Spencer.

Asshatted, gel-headed, con artist Spencer who'd pulled the wool over far too many people's eyes for far too long. Not Carlton. Never Carlton. But this was not the time to gloat. Nor really, did he want to. Not if it made Juliet feel even worse than she clearly already did.

"You're not a fool."

She glanced up, eyes wide as if shocked by his words or his tone or maybe simply the fact he wasn't grabbing his weapon and rushing out of the suite, swearing to arrest Spencer for any damned thing.

Or, you know, gloating.

"I feel like one."

"You know, why don't you let me be the judge of that." He quickly closed the distance between them to stand directly before her. "Seeing as I'm the resident expert in being made to feel a fool."

"Oh, Carlton—" Her stricken gaze met his, renewed hurt turning them a deep blue-gray. The same hurt reflected in her voice and that twisted low in his gut with the sharp intensity of a knife.

"Juliet… don't."

As if in slow motion, her hand rose to touch his cheek, her thumb skimming the surface of his skin much like when she'd brushed the mud away in the wake of his bear trap-induced, white water adventure.

"I took his side so damned often."

"You thought I was being stubborn and irrational." It took considerable effort to not visibly tremble beneath her touch especially given how his insides were violently quaking.

"When all you were being was resolute. And right." Her lovely full mouth thinned into an unhappy line. "And I was being such a damned fool."

He couldn't take it. He simply could not take the sight of Juliet berating herself and miserable and unhappy and maybe he was the damned fool now, but he absolutely could _not_ stand to see her mouth so thin and hard, her beautiful face wreathed in such sad lines. Lowering his head, he touched his mouth to hers, swallowing her surprised gasp, but otherwise, remaining still, half-certain, half-panicked, waiting to see if it was okay, if this was what she wanted, three-fourths terrified her earlier kiss had been some sort of bizarre fluke influenced by too much wine and their undercover roles.

Not a fluke.

_So_ not a fluke.

Almost immediately she sighed, a sweet wine and chocolate-scented breath he savored as her mouth softened and opened beneath his, her tongue emerging to brush his lower lip before venturing further, stroking against his almost shyly, it felt. Deep in his brain he registered the familiarity of the sensation—recalled he'd felt her tongue against his once before, during their ballroom kiss. Recalled, too, that it had been at _his_ instigation. She hadn't pulled away then, memory sense reminded him. Not at all. She'd drawn away gradually, reluctantly almost, a sweet, secret smile curving her mouth while he'd stood there dumbfounded, his brain scrambled from shock and arousal and flooded with an overwhelming sense of dear God, _why_?

Why him? Why now?

_Why?_

Aw, hell. Maybe _why_ wasn't so important. Not right now.

With a sigh of his own he finally gave in fully, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close as he changed the angle of his head to better allow him to deepen the kiss, to taste her more completely, to give her what she seemed to want from him.

Because that's what his normally paranoid, pessimistic brain was insisting—Juliet _wanted_ this. From him.

His stupid brain would need to know why, he understood, but not right now. For right now it seemed content to actually let him enjoy the moment. The moment that lingered and evolved as she rose on tiptoe to better fit herself to him, arms on his shoulders, one hand buried in his hair, the other cupping his cheek, the tips of her fingers teasing the rim of his ear in a sensual caress. On and on they kissed, Carlton pressing her against the door, allowing her to feel the full weight of his body and his desire as his hands roamed the curves that fit so perfectly to his body.

Still, though—much as body and heart were reveling in the mutual desire and unexpected freedom to indulge said desire—his brain knew this was as far as they could go. At least, for now.

Slowly… so slowly… he drew back, each kiss slightly shorter in duration, slightly lighter, but no less sweet. No less full of promise.

"Juliet," he whispered into her hair as he nuzzled the delicate line of her jaw and the tender spot just behind her ear, savoring the full-body tremor that ran through her and vibrated so temptingly against him.

With a sigh she leaned into him, her arms shifting to wrap around his waist as her head came to rest on his shoulder. "I must seem completely insane."

Her words from before—standing outside in the hall, her touch still lingering on his skin. He'd been impatient and terrified—wanted to know, so damned much, what the hell was going on. He still wanted to know, but for now, he could wait. Other things took precedence.

"A little," he murmured, rubbing his cheek against her hair, as if trying to mark himself with her, stunned anew at the arch of her body against his in response, the pressure of her fingers as they curled into his back. "Okay, maybe a lot."

He was rewarded with a soft laugh and oh, how he loved making her laugh. Never more than now, her body wrapped around his, her laugh vibrating pleasantly through his body. With more than a little regret he pushed himself away from her, just far enough to be able to look down into her face, frowning at the dark shadows marring the delicate skin beneath her eyes and the overall air of weariness that still clung, although it was greatly dissipated from before.

"You also seem tired." He stroked her hair back from her face, his heart stuttering as she turned into his touch, her lips grazing the sensitive skin of his palm.

"I am," she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. "I am so very tired, Carlton."

Anger at Spencer, never far from the surface, rose, burning hot and acid in his chest. Revelation of his fraudulence aside, he'd done this—of that, Carlton was absolutely certain. And that he'd brought Juliet to such a state of defeat, because that's exactly what this was—a bone-deep exhaustion that spoke of just wanting to give up—simmered just shy of boiling over. The only reason it didn't was because to allow it to overwhelm him wouldn't do Juliet any good. Right now, she was Carlton's priority.

Hell, who was he kidding? Right now, always, forever, she was his priority. Spencer could damn well wait.

Or he could take a long walk off a short pier. Into a particularly deep water harbor. With sharks. That would work, too.

"Listen, why don't you go take a shower?" he suggested. "Get comfortable."

She sagged a fraction more, swaying forward as if wanting nothing more than to sink against him, sink into oblivion, yet fighting equally hard to stay upright. To stand on her own and do what she felt right.

Did the woman not understand, after all this time, they stood together? God knows she'd supported him through plenty, whether she was aware of it or not, and she'd damn well better know he'd walk through fire for her.

"We need to talk," she murmured, although she swayed a fraction closer, her fists tightening in the fabric of his shirt.

"And we will," he assured her with another stroke to her hair. "But soul-baring should at least be done in the comfort of pink plaid flannel, shouldn't it?"

There. That earned him another one of those precious laughs. He'd never considered himself particularly funny—at least not on purpose. Inadvertently so was a curse he'd suffered since childhood—so often the target of mocking, the shreds of his dignity offered up at the expense of a cheap laugh—turning him into a man many considered humorless when it was the furthest thing from the truth. He loved to laugh and loved to laugh with others. And he especially loved making his partner laugh—loved how it lit her up from the inside. He'd often considered it good fortune she'd never figured out why he offered up so many biting observations in her presence, learning early on in their partnership that she appreciated sarcastic wit every bit as much as he did. Considered it good fortune that biting sarcasm fit so very well with his overall acerbic personality.

"Come on now." Keeping an arm around her, he led them toward their bedroom—the designation he'd immediately assigned the space even as his pessimistic brain had scolded him for being an idiot. Part of the cover, he'd argued back. _Idiot_, his brain had hissed. "Trust me, you'll feel better after a hot shower."

She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. "What'd I ever do to deserve you?"

"I'm not sure, but it had to have been bad, O'Hara."

She reached up and twisted his ear. "Shut up, Lassiter."

"_Ow_. But—"

Her fingers tightened.

"Okay, okay—" With a wince he added, "Shutting up."

Her fingers loosened and teased his ear with another one of those feather-light caresses that turned his insides to mush. "Better."

After waiting to hear the shower start running, he returned to the suite's main room shaking his head as he took in the destruction Spencer had managed to wreak in a remarkably short amount of time. Which reminded him—

"Karen Vick—"

"Karen, sorry to be calling so late."

"No worries—I was up. Any developments?"

"Not on the case, as such, no, but we do have a problem."

"Is the problem about five-nine and twenty-five pounds overweight?" Her voice was grim.

"Gee, how'd you guess?"

"Credit card company called fifteen minutes ago asking me to verify charges on the department credit card. He was trying to reserve a suite in your hotel. A suite," she repeated, as if that had been the tipping point into stunned disbelief. "I was actually about to call and warn you of his inevitable appearance—like a creeping fungus—but I can see I would've been too late."

The nimrod really was an idiot. "It was more like an atom bomb. Please tell me you've issued a warrant for his arrest. I might still be able to catch up to him."

"Not yet and Detective, you are _not_ to go after him. He's not your assignment."

"Dammit," he growled, frustration gnawing at him, but not quite as insistent as usual.

"Carlton—"

"Relax, Karen, I'm staying put." Not because she was ordering him to, but she didn't need to know that.

"Good." Her sigh was long and resigned. "I have Miller and Dobson on their way to go pick him up and get him the hell out of there—discreetly, I hope."

"Yeah, good luck with that." He sighed and shoved a hand through his hair.

"Has he compromised your cover?"

"I don't think so." He sighed again. "We came back from dinner and the mixer to find he'd broken into our suite and availed himself of both the contents of the minibar and room service, so don't be surprised if you get another call from the credit card company."

"The charges'll be worth it if satisfying his appetite kept him from screwing up your cover. And if he did blow your cover, I will make him work off every red cent, even if it means stints scrubbing down the morgue with his toothbrush after Woody completes autopsies. What the hell did he think he was going to be able to accomplish anyway?"

Restless, Carlton prowled through the room, picking up debris and depositing it into a trashcan, needing to be doing something productive, especially since the range wasn't currently an option. "You know what, Karen—I'm not willing to go delving into the terrifying abyss that is Spencer's mind and motivations. That way lies madness."

"You make a good point." She sighed again. "Hopefully, he hasn't done anything that will rear up to bite us on the ass at an inopportune moment."

"You mean like every other case he's ever butted into?"

"Ha ha. Look, just be extra careful, okay? And keep me posted."

"Roger that."

Tossing the phone to the coffee table, he continued clearing away the aftermath of Hurricane Spencer, anxious to eradicate all evidence of him.

"You didn't tell her."

He spun to find Juliet standing, damp and flushed, in the doorway to their room. He smiled as he noted she was, indeed, clad in the pink plaid pants and camisole he'd observed her unpacking and putting away upon their arrival. He doubted any silk negligee could look as alluring as the more prosaic cotton and flannel. Although he wouldn't object to silk in any way. Or, you know… less. A fist of arousal grabbed hold deep in his gut and points southward, making him grateful for his own loose-fitting flannel pajama pants. They were not, however, _that_ loose-fitting.

Scolding himself for bad timing and an adolescent lack of control, he piled the last of the trash on the tray and took it out to the hallway, pausing for a moment to scan the area for any lingering signs of Spencer and wrestle his wayward hormones under firmer control. Satisfied on both counts, he closed the door once more, careful to set both the guard and chain before turning back to Juliet who'd moved to stand behind the sofa.

"I wasn't going to tell her anything for which I didn't have answers."

A sad smile crossed her face. "You always had that answer."

"But no way to prove it. And no one was ever willing to take me at my word. Especially when he was getting results. Made the truth that much less important."

He tried to keep bitterness from creeping into his voice, but dammit, it was so hard. Seven years of putting up with Spencer's crap and near-dangerous antics, often to the point of having not only Carlton's life threatened, but Juliet's and other members of the force and on more occasions with which Carlton was comfortable, too many innocent civilians. His own life he could give a rat's ass about, but civilians or other cops or God forbid, Juliet—that was unacceptable.

Judging by the shadow that crossed her face, he'd kind of failed at keeping the bitterness at bay. "Oh, Carlton, I owe you so very much."

Swiftly, he crossed to her, gently grasping her arms. "You don't owe me a damned thing you don't want to give."

She gazed up at him, searching it seemed. Carlton forced himself to remain still beneath her intense scrutiny—struggled to not put up the defenses that were second nature after so many years. He didn't know what she was searching for, but for her, he'd leave himself as open as he possibly could. And if she felt the need for further clarification, he'd give her every answer she sought, no matter how much it might pain him.

It had been that way with Juliet for longer than he might care to admit. He might not have ever told her all his secrets, but only because she hadn't asked. The willingness? That had been there for a surprisingly long time.

After several long moments where it felt as if she was reaching down into his soul and gently examining every secret he'd ever kept hidden, she released a long shuddering breath and lowered her head to his chest, her arms creeping around his waist to hold on tight.

Very soft and muffled by cotton, her words nevertheless emerged crystal clear and very nearly made his heart stop.

"I want to give you everything."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**AN: **Sorry for the delay, folks—the Muse, she is being cranky and unpredictable with this one. Fair warning, there will be spoilers a'plenty for _Lassie Jerky_—from there, however, we're riding straight off the rails. Hang on for the ride.

By the by, in response to some PMs I've received, I should clarify: I don't dislike Marlowe—I actually rather love the idea that Carlton would find love with an ex-felon he had a hand in putting in jail. It's really kind of perfect. But I've long maintained a soft spot for the chemistry he shares with Juliet. I know not everyone sees it and certainly, it's been downplayed ever since she and Shawn became a couple, but it's there and I like it and it's what I choose to write. Okay, mini-rant over. Carry on. :-)

* * *

She had to hand it to Carlton. For such an incredibly impatient man—for knowing he was finally about to receive validation for a belief he alone had maintained for so many years, for all he had to be chafing at the bit to know everything _right this very damned minute_, he was being _incredibly_ patient with her.

Not to mention remarkably intuitive and sensitive, putting her needs above his own—both the need to know everything _right this very damned minute_ as well as not acting on the desire she knew he felt as keenly as she did. Intense as it was, it simply wasn't the right time to explore it and they both damn well knew it.

After she'd sighed and offered the entirety of her heart to him, he'd done nothing more than hold her for endless minutes, his body tense with awareness and that simmering desire, yet his hold remained infinitely gentle, offering nothing more than comfort and acceptance.

She had overlooked so very much about him over the years. Had overlooked how very much he saw and absorbed. Maybe it wasn't with the same facility as Shawn, but by the same token, what he saw and absorbed ran so much deeper. Stayed with him far longer. Meant a hell of a lot more.

Maybe that's why she'd waited so long to tell him.

"You ready to talk?"

Mutely, she nodded, but when he tried to lead them toward the sofa, she dug in her heels, reluctant to have that particular piece of furniture bear witness to her confession. In response to his questioning look, she said "Not there—please," breathing easier as she saw understanding cross his face.

"It's stupid, I know," she started, stopping as he pulled her close to him.

"No, smart move. At the very least, it probably has to be fumigated," he rumbled against her ear, making her laugh when she would have thought herself completely incapable of finding any humor in the situation.

"I love you."

He jerked back, slack-jawed, those expressive blue eyes wide with a thousand questions but past the shock and the questions she recognized emotion that matched her own, echoing with the deep, mellow resonance of church bells.

She'd known it. Had been aware of its existence—in different ways over the years—but she'd been well aware he loved her, this man who didn't often allow himself the luxury of feeling emotions like love. Anger, aggression, indifference—those, yes. Those were easy. They were easily recognizable, one-dimensional—people didn't tend to pry or look past the surface. Perfect for such an intensely private and reserved man.

Something like love, however, was far harder. So many layers. So many risks. Entirely too fraught with danger for someone who felt as powerfully as he did. Juliet knew once Carlton allowed himself to feel love, it had a frightening tendency to lower his defenses. It was entirely possible he wasn't even aware of it but Carlton, when he loved, was painfully vulnerable—even though he'd just as soon eat his way through a bucket of rusty nails than ever admit it. Juliet had long ago recognized this tender side to her tough, hardened partner—understood just how much harm had come to him in the past—and had promised herself she would do whatever it took to protect him.

She'd kind of failed miserably at it lately, hadn't she? But the past two months had brought with it a strengthened resolve as well as an increased awareness of why her feelings ran so deep and so powerfully.

"Juliet… I—"

She put her fingertips to his lips. Immediately, his agitation stilled. Again, one of those things of which she'd always been aware—her ability to settle him with a word or a touch, but the layers, the sheer depths of her ability were only just now beginning to reveal themselves to her.

Or was it that she was allowing herself to see those depths?

"I know, Carlton," she reassured him, moving her hand to cup his cheek. "I know. And we'll talk about it later. I swear, I _want_ to talk about it and no, it's not a mistake or some misguided emotional outburst or me experiencing a psychotic break. This is absolutely real, but first—" She sighed again, the exhaustion near to overwhelming, but she knew they had to get through this first. For all she knew, he'd hate her after she was done. Carlton didn't take to secrets well and this one—

Well… this one was a humdinger.

Again, though, he surprised her, simply nodding and leading the way to their room where the big bed waited, already turned down, a small box resting on each pillow. The low light from the bedside lamps bathed the otherwise large room in a dim intimate glow, giving it the sensation of a cocoon. Their space.

In silent accord, they slipped beneath the sheets, further cocooning themselves, nothing odd or uncomfortable about a situation that should by all rights, have been both. They turned to their sides, facing each other, enough of the bed between them they could clearly read each other's faces, not so much so they couldn't touch, their hands meeting in the middle, his larger one resting over hers, his thumb rubbing a slow, hypnotic pattern across the back. Focusing her concentration on the light, yet deliberate drag of skin against skin, Juliet slowly began.

"It was the film."

She thought she heard a sharp intake of breath, but her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears, she couldn't be completely sure.

"I wouldn't have ever noticed it, except he insisted on watching it again at home. And again. And again. And a-_freakin_-gain." It was on the third time through she'd caught it. Probably because she was now looking for signs, the fourth viewing had revealed still more. After he'd gone off to score some churros with Gus prior to an all-night _Porky's_ film fest that she had absolutely _no_ interest in attending, she'd watched it again. And again. And a-_freakin_-gain.

"What was it?"

In the low light his eyes were dark, flickering rapidly, clearly trying to recall scenes from Shawn's "Found Footage Masterpiece," as he'd so modestly dubbed it. Never mind it hadn't even been his project to begin with. She could tell by the tightening of Carlton's hand around hers and the sudden harsh lines of his expression, the exact moment he recalled the bear trap closing around his leg, the sharp teeth tearing through skin and muscle.

"Shh… it's okay." With her free hand, she brushed the skin along his cheekbone, trying to bring him back.

He relaxed beneath her touch, but only marginally. "Juliet, what the hell did you see?"

"'O'Hara, I forbid you to buy into this load of crap,'" she quoted softly, watching his face carefully.

"And I said we should arrest them and go back to the city—so?"

"And then Shawn said he 'sensed' the bodies did not get up and walk away on their own. That they were dragged."

"Okay, and—?" His brows were knit together in the familiar frown, but his gaze remained unwavering, his hold secure.

"Can you recall where the camera was focused right before he said that, Carlton—while you were talking?"

His frown deepened, the blue of his eyes flickering once more as he ran the film through his mind, his trained detective's memory clearly scrolling through each frame to the best of his ability. Admittedly, it had been more than two months since he'd seen it and to the best of her knowledge, he'd only seen it the one time and had lacked any interest in seeing it again, so she was prepared if memory failed, but it didn't. She knew when he saw it—could tell by the fractional widening of his eyes just before a low, furious "Son of a _bitch_," burst free.

She gripped his hand tightly, afraid he might just take off and go after Shawn and needing him to stay right there with her. She needed to get through this.

"He saw them," Carlton said tightly, his gaze searching her face for acknowledgment. "He _saw_ the goddamned drag marks right before he 'sensed' it." Barely waiting for her nod, he went on, "And that flashback—that _insight_ into his process. The camera had been focused on the bodies—all he had to do was put together what he'd seen with the evidence Ed Dixon discovered and… and—"

His voice trailed off in fury as his breath came in rapid gasps.

"This is…" Carlton's eyes narrowed, the crease between his brows so deeply etched, Juliet feared it would never completely relax. "This is what he's been doing for the last seven years. Just… _seeing _things. Things that were right there but that he got access to ahead of us."

Resigned and miserable all over again, she nodded.

"And you've known this since he showed us the film?"

Barely able to move, she managed a small inclination of her head.

"Why, Juliet?" His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet emerged harsh and ragged, tearing at her heart. "Why in the hell didn't you say anything to me then?"

"Because you needed to concentrate on getting better," she said softly, knowing as excuses went, it wouldn't fly with Carlton. "You'd been shot and caught in a bear trap and you didn't need the upset. You knowing then would have been… bad."

She stared down at their hands, still together, his still steady on hers, not recoiling or drawing back in revulsion. "And… I needed to be sure," she confessed more softly. "I needed to process it for myself. I'd defended him for so long, to the detriment of our partnership—my God, it nearly _cost_ us our partnership—and I just… I needed to deal with it myself. I had to take a stand for myself that had nothing to do with you, at least as far as he was concerned."

Softer still—"If he'd thought you had anything to do with my confronting him, he would never have accepted it."

Silence fell, so all-encompassing, the faint click as the air conditioner cycled on sounded overwhelmingly loud in the otherwise quiet room. It was so quiet, Juliet almost imagined hearing the twin sounds of their heartbeats, fast and harsh, beating together, but not quite in sync. He was trying to catch up to where she'd been for nearly two months, his mind racing as he processed the lie that hit at the very core of who he was not just professionally, but personally.

"Son of a bitch. So that's why he did it."

Startled, she jerked her head up to find a grim expression on his face that matched his tone. "Did what?"

His nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled sharply. "He sent the film to Marlowe—a little gift to pass the time in jail and illustrate how very brave her 'Sweet Love Muffin'—his words not mine." His eyebrow quirked. "Had been in the wild."

Juliet's heart was pounding. Several weeks back, Marlowe had broken up with him, suddenly and without warning. To say Juliet had been shocked, not to mention, furious, would be understating it. It was still early in Carlton's recovery and she'd worried it would be a setback. She'd wanted to ask if he was okay, but hadn't wanted to potentially upset him further.

Hell, who was she kidding? Truth was, she hadn't wanted to potentially reveal her own relief and the tiny burgeoning of hope she'd experienced on hearing the news. It was shameful enough realizing the depths of her own selfishness—she didn't need to reveal it to Carlton when he was potentially at his lowest. He needed as much of his life as possible to remain stable in order to stay on the path to recovery. And if that meant remaining nothing more than partner and friend, then partner and friend she would be. As long as he needed. Even if that meant forever.

"Marlowe _was_ most impressed with my bravery." He pursed his lips then continued in a steady voice. "However, she wasn't all that happy that my first thought was an intense desire to keep the circumstances of what had happened from her."

"You were in shock," Juliet protested. "And you were embarrassed. You know those woods as well as anyone. To be caught like that—"

His shoulder lifted, accompanied by a wince. His bad shoulder—and while it was much better, she knew exhaustion, tension, and rainy weather had a tendency to affect it. Right now, they were dealing with two out of three. She was glad he was holding her hand—the temptation to reach out and rub the ache away was near-overwhelming.

"Oh, it didn't end there. She definitely wasn't happy that on what I thought was death's door, I couldn't bring myself to say I loved her."

"Okay," Juliet said slowly, not quite understanding where he was going with this. She got the feeling hurt part, but—

"The biggest issue she had, though, was you."

"What?"

Carlton's hand shifted slightly, lacing their fingers together. "My sweet, tough Juliet," he murmured almost to himself. "I didn't give a damn that you saw me at my worst. I let you take care of me without complaint. When saying my final goodbyes, I saved you for last." His voice dropped further. "And I gave you…everything."

Juliet shivered on his final word, hearing in it everything she'd said to him earlier with her own utterance of the same.

_I'm going to die out here… O'Hara—you are the best partner I have ever… ever had…_

Shivered again, his words from the film echoing through her mind and leaving her as chilled as they had the first time she'd heard them, terrified to find him gone. Terrified he might be dead, despite her staunch refusal to accept the nattering of the tribe of idiots she'd been forced to herd through the wilds in search of Carlton because there had been no way in hell she was leaving those godforsaken woods without him. Period.

"I have to hand it to Marlowe," he said, carefully bringing their palms flush against each other. "She's honest about her feelings. She started out saying that despite knowing what her brother had done to me—knowing how close to death I'd been then—the film had really brought home the reality of being a cop's significant other."

"It's difficult," she said carefully, unwilling to look at him and focusing on their hands instead.

"Yeah, it is, but with what she's already endured, she could handle it and knew I knew it." He exhaled slowly. "That's when she said the real truth was that she saw us in that film. And knew there was no superseding the bond we have."

"We're partners," she said quietly. "And friends. We have been, for a long time."

"Juliet—"

Half-terrified, half-hopeful, she lifted her head to meet his gaze.

"That's not what she saw. And when I saw the film again, I got it."

"Got what?"

He didn't answer. At least not with words. But then, the light in his eyes just before they closed—the sweet, soft brush of his mouth against hers before it settled more fully and more perfectly—kind of said it all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**AN:** Slight spoilers for _Cirque du Soul_. I'm appropriating information gleaned during a…_certain_ conversation, although obviously, the context is altered somewhat, taking place before the events of _Lassie Jerky_. Slight **M**-territory.

* * *

Carlton had long prided himself on having a very healthy sex drive. As well as knowing what to do with said very healthy sex drive. He also, of course, prided himself on having exceptional self-control over said very healthy sex drive. Unless he drank a little too much—then he tended to get stupid and make ill-advised choices.

_Really_ ill-advised choices.

However, right at this moment, the morning light barely edging its way past the drawn curtains, he was stone cold sober with his very healthy sex drive refusing to yield to every entreaty and trick of self-control he'd mastered over the years. Then again, he'd never slowly drifted awake with Juliet cradled intimately against him, her back to his chest, their legs tangled together, and her arm draped over his with their hands linked and resting on the soft, warm skin of her bare stomach, where the hem of her camisole had crept up during the night.

Yeah. Just like that.

The night before, they'd done nothing more than kiss, slow, sweet caresses, interspersed with even sweeter words. The cynic in him remained terrified—afraid to believe that this could all be true. Convinced she was rebounding, searching out a place where it was safe to fall apart.

The possibility of a psychotic break—_his_—had also occurred, then she'd murmured his name and kissed him again and he thought if he was breaking, well then bring on the guys in the white coats because if he _was_ cracked… it was a hell of a way to go.

Exhaustion had eventually won out, however, her eyes drifting shut, even as she'd continued to reach for him, nuzzling his shoulder and throat, her lips seeking out sensitive spots and lingering where his pulse beat wildly in response, until finally, she stilled, her breathing evening out into a slow steady rhythm. He'd lain awake a while longer, stroking her back in a motion meant to soothe himself as much as her while he reviewed the evening's events and processed everything he'd learned.

Good God, but that damned film. What immense havoc a stupid—and really, it was fantastically, moronically stupid—endeavor had ultimately wrought. Physically, emotionally, and for Spencer, costing him his very identity, false though it may have been. The ultimate irony, of course, was that the idiot's secret might have remained under wraps with no one the wiser if he hadn't been so single-minded about the stupid film and if Carlton's reflexes hadn't been so good, catching the camera just before it hit the fast-moving water, never to be seen again.

Over and over, he went through everything—as well as relived each and every one of those kisses shared with Juliet, until eventually, he drifted off as well. It wasn't a particularly sound sleep—what with the way he woke every couple of hours to marvel at her continued presence in his arms and showing no signs of wanting to be anywhere else—but he wouldn't trade it for anything. As much as he wanted her in the biblical sense, he couldn't imagine anything much better than the gift of holding Juliet. In his arms. All night.

No wonder his sex drive was currently in the process of giving him the finger as it cackled evilly and sent another surge of desire straight through his gut and points south which reacted predictably.

Crap. He would not wake her up no matter what his sex drive was, um… driving him to do. Their first time making love would absolutely not happen as a result of uncontrollable hormones worthy of a sixteen year-old boy afraid to miss his one shot—so to speak. He would get his shot—so to speak—as well as many others. No doubt about it. Mostly because Juliet had said so last night as she'd drifted off. Had murmured how much she wanted him. Another reason he'd had trouble drifting off to sleep. The knowledge that he held Juliet and that soon… very soon… he would be making love to her.

So he could be patient and his sex drive could suck it—in a manner of speaking.

So.

Right then.

Fine.

_Fine._

Dammit.

He would _not_ wake her up.

As he saw it, this left him with two choices: one, he could take a cold shower—not particularly appealing nor did the effects tend to last all that long, especially when he was in… a _mood_—or two, he could find a way to make himself useful.

In a _non-biblical_ sense, he scolded his libido as it perked up yet again, the hopeful little bastard.

The suite had a coffeemaker—he _could_ get out of bed, much as he hated leaving Juliet, and make life-and-sanity-restoring brew before they had to go present themselves as Carlton and Juliet O'Leary. They'd have to be careful with that, he mused as he carefully eased from the bed, unable to resist brushing a kiss against the slight frown that appeared on Juliet's face as she rolled over and patted the mattress. Long-term happily married was one thing, but he had to dial back the stupid giddiness that spoke of newfound love, not to mention, raging hormones, lest he blow their cover.

Then again, they could pass it off as this weekend having reignited the spark.

That is, if the spark was ignited too close to a keg of gunpowder.

Whistling beneath his breath, he got the coffee brewing then ducked into the powder room for a quick mouthwash rinse and to otherwise make certain he looked as presentable as a habitually irascible, hardass, forty-four year-old cop with too much gray in his beard could. He ran his fingers through his hair, despite knowing there wasn't a whole lot that could be done with the mess of cowlicks and cropped waves until after he… _they?—he_, dammit—showered. Gripping the sides of the pedestal sink, he shook his head at the image he faced in the mirror.

Still the same habitually irascible, hardass, forty-four-year-old cop with too much gray in his beard, but damn if he wasn't smiling, the lines normally creasing his face smoothed into something that even a random stranger passing on the street could interpret as content. Happy even. Not that he was fooling himself. There were still obstacles to overcome—Spencer, for one, because no way would he make this easy once he learned that he and Juliet were involved. Then there was the not-inconsiderable obstacle of their jobs. He had a feeling, though, that Karen would be far more predisposed to allowing he and Juliet to continue working together, provided they kept a firm line between the personal and the private, which he fully intended to do. And he'd play dirty if it came down to it, pointing out the blind eye she'd turned to Spencer and Juliet's relationship and how often it had interfered with their work.

Somehow, though, he had a feeling he wouldn't have to stoop to such measures.

He shook his head once more at his stupidly grinning reflection. Who the hell was this hopeful bastard staring back at him?

The gurgling of the coffeemaker finishing its cycle roused him from contemplation of the future—dear God, he had a future worth contemplating—and brought him back to the present. Quickly, he prepared two mugs and headed back into the bedroom, stopping short at the sight that greeted him.

"You left."

After unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Carlton managed, "You were still asleep."

"Not _that _asleep." One shoulder rose, causing the sheet to slip and expose more creamy skin. Creamy _bare_ skin. Oh-so-bare-and-tempting skin. "Judging by what I felt along my backside, I was looking forward to slowly waking up to a handsome man doing illicit things to me."

Without a word, Carlton slammed the two mugs down on the dresser, using the t-shirt he quickly stripped off to wipe off the coffee that had sloshed over onto his hands. By the time his knee hit the mattress, he'd stripped off his pajama pants and was as nude as Juliet was revealed to be as she drew back the sheet, welcoming him into her embrace.

* * *

Later… much later, Juliet breathed out a long—and to Carlton's ear—very satisfied, "Wow."

"Indeed," he rumbled against the soft, fragrant skin of her neck, breathing her in and marking her with sharp, small bites that left her shivering and sighing, her hands tightening over his. They were back in their original position, her back plastered to his front, his body curved protectively around hers, and damn if his libido, which, by all means should have been at least _somewhat_ sated, wasn't revving up for another round.

"Lord, Ursula was right."

"Ursula?" Suddenly alarmed, he lifted his head. "Ursula Gibbs?"

Her hair teased his neck and jaw briefly as she nodded. Turning , she gazed up at him, skin flushed and still lightly sheened with sweat and leaving him struggling to remember what the hell Ursula even looked like.

"She cornered me at the courthouse one day, crazed because you'd never called her and were refusing to answer her calls."

"Because she's a whackaloon and I was afraid to come home and find my bunny in the stockpot."

"You don't have a bunny and I _tried_ to warn you."

He sighed and brushed her still-damp hair back from her face. He hoped she was a fan of joint showers since they happened to be a particular favorite of his. "I have, on occasion, proven to be more than a bit bullheaded when it comes to listening to my partner."

"In the past," she prompted.

He grinned. "You think just because you own my heart I'm going to turn into a complete pushover?"

With a swift move, she rolled him onto his back and draped herself over him, effectively pinning him to the mattress. "In certain situations," she whispered into his ear, "yes."

"Okay, yeah," he agreed readily, his muscles clenching as the slow-simmering desire shot up to a full rolling boil. And as much as he loved taking charge in the bedroom, making certain his lover's every need was satisfied, he admitted a certain weakness to giving himself over to a beautiful woman's ministrations. He obligingly lay back and allowed Juliet to explore him with hands and mouth and indeed, her entire body as she rubbed herself against him like a sinuous cat, searching to relieve an elusive itch.

God, he hoped that itch remained persistent. He'd be more than happy to dedicate himself to seeking it out and relieving it for the rest of their lives.

She touched and caressed and licked and bit and tasted until he couldn't take it any longer. Pulling her up, he kissed her hard as he drove up into her, their bodies falling into an immediate, perfect rhythm that only broke with their climaxes—first hers, her muscles clutching around him as she gasped his name, followed closely by his, shuddering and leaving him winded and dazed with the knowledge that it had never been like this for him before.

Juliet collapsed on him, a sweet, welcome weight, her gasps bathing his skin in warmth.

"As I was saying," she murmured between gasps, "Ursula might be bat guano insane, but now, having confirmed for myself the absolute veracity of her words, I can't blame her one bit for being pissed you never called her." She sighed, her breasts pressing into his chest with a delightful, damp friction.

"Good God, O'Hara, what the hell did the woman say?"

Juliet balled her fists on his chest and propped her chin on them, bringing her face level with his. "At the risk of inflating your ego to ridiculous proportions—"

"You handled Spencer's ego for years, mine is child's play by comparison."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Good point. Anyhow, in short, she called you a god amongst lovers."

He blinked, searching Juliet's dark blue gaze for any sign she was pulling his leg and finding none. Yes, he prided himself on being a considerate and thorough lover and hell, he liked sex, quite a lot, but… _god_?

Juliet smiled, clearly reading his disbelief. "She went on to say, unprompted by me, I might add, that you were passionate, creative, had amazing stamina, and knew your way around the female form like none other." She sighed and shifted to frame his face between her warm palms. Lowering her head, she pressed her mouth to his and murmured, "She's certifiable, but in this case, absolutely right."

He preened. Just a little. Okay, a lot, as he opened his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply. Shifting on the pillows, he Juliet close, rubbing his cheek against her hair. "And your reaction to this information?"

Her chuckle vibrated pleasantly against him. "I was, as any good partner would be, appalled—at least on the surface. Then I didn't think much about it because, you know, I was with Shawn." Her body jerked against his with her sudden breath as she looked up at him, brows knit together.

"It's okay," he soothed. "We've had our separate lives. We can't pretend they never happened."

She sighed, the frown remaining in place. "God, I kind of wish I could."

"No." Juliet stared, wide-eyed at his immediate and undeniably certain response. Carlton could understand her surprise—if anyone would want to obliterate Spencer's existence, God knows, it would be him. But he didn't. "If you hadn't had Spencer in your life, who knows if we would ever have happened?"

"Oh, come on, Carlton—you don't believe in fate or predestination."

"You're right, I don't. But in this case if the result is you, in my arms, right now and hopefully forever, I'll take everything that happened—every damned time."

Her expression softened at his words, a long sigh escaping as she fit herself even more closely against him. "That's what Ursula missed," she murmured, her lips brushing the bullet scar on his shoulder in a tender caress. "She may have gotten the passion and creativity, but didn't understand that the man behind it was the real prize." She stroked his chest, her fingers playing through the hair and making him sigh in return.

"I may have been appalled at her oversharing on the outside, but on the inside, her words crept into my subconscious and carved out their own little niche, lying there dormant until—"

Again she stopped short. Sensing that she was only momentarily gathering herself Carlton simply stroked her hair and waited—musing offhandedly how, where this woman was concerned, he seemed to have infinite stores of patience.

"Until you got hurt.". Her hand stilled on his chest, revealing a slight tremor that only stopped when he covered it with his own. "Everything changed then," she went on very softly. "I think… even if the film hadn't revealed Shawn's deception, things between us couldn't have lasted too much longer."

Speechless, his chest burning from the sheer emotion lacing her words, Carlton simply gathered Juliet even closer, one hand buried in her hair, the other latched securely on her hip, holding tight. So tight, he feared he was leaving marks, but she neither flinched nor made any motion to move away. Rather, she responded by drawing his thigh between hers, her muscles closing hard around his leg while her arms found their way completely around his torso. In his mind's eye, Carlton envisioned them as looking like those drawings from ancient temples he remembered from a long-ago college Art History class.

He'd hated that damned class—deeming it a massive waste of time. However, having a goddess like Juliet wound around his body in a sensuous embrace that spoke of long nights and forever? That was art he could appreciate.

They lay there for a long time—he might have even dozed a little—before she spoke again.

"You know, once Ursula finds out about us, she is liable to go all _Fatal Attraction_. Remind me to upgrade my security system when we get home."

"My security system's top of the line and damned near impenetrable."

She lifted her head, a small, pleased smile turning up the corners of her lovely mouth in such an enticing way, he couldn't help but lean in and kiss it.

"We will definitely talk about it," she murmured against his mouth. "Soon." She drew back and sighed. "But first, we have a case to close out."

He reached over to the night stand and grabbed his watch, groaning as he read the time. "Dammit, we have the Mimosa Brunch and Romance Roulette in a half hour."

"Crap on a cracker," she all but growled, drawing a reluctant smile from him. "There go my plans for a leisurely joint shower."

His smile broadened. "We can still shower together if we swear we'll just keep it strictly for bathing purposes."

She pushed up to a sitting position, crossing her arms and God help him, pouting. "I don't _want_ to keep it strictly for bathing purposes."

His sex drive awoke in a hurry then, a development she clearly didn't miss, judging by the way her pout intensified. Not to mention the longing groan that escaped.

"Have you noticed the tub?" he asked as he intercepted her hand before it could make full contact and completely derail the day.

She relaxed slightly, turning her hand in his. "It is rather large."

He nodded, his mind already racing. "How about we plan to make up for the abbreviated shower with a nice, long bath by candlelight?"

Her head tilted, a speculative light brightening her eyes to a deep blue-green. "Champagne?"

"Whatever you want."

She reached out and took his free hand in hers. "That, I've already got."

Oh, hell with it. "Just because our shower has to be quick, doesn't mean it can't be entertaining."

A truly evil, enchanting, alluring, and downright sexy grin broke out across her face. "Race you," she said before scrambling off the bed, leaving him swearing and fighting to untangle himself from the sheets.

* * *

Holding tight to Juliet's hand, Carlton eased through the French doors onto the large, airy veranda, only twenty minutes late. A damn well worth it twenty minutes late, even if the ends of Juliet's hair remained damp and she'd only had time to apply lipstick and just enough powder to cover the faint hickey low on her neck, where it met her shoulder.

She still outshone every damned woman in the room, in Carlton's opinion. And the opinion of several of the men, too, if the appreciative glances were any indication. Just as he was prepping to turn up the wattage on his Lassiter glare, he felt Juliet's hand squeeze his.

"If these women do not stop eyeing you down, I swear to God, I am going to go medieval on their asses, case be damned."

Startled, he glanced down at her, only to find her attention focused on the room at large, her narrow-eyed glare making other women glance nervously away.

"Relax, baby," he murmured, stifling a laugh. "I'm yours."

"Damned straight," she muttered as she led them around the tables in search of their assigned seats.

He was in the process of pulling out Juliet's chair for her when trouble struck.

"Oh my God, Carlton, it _is_ you! And Juliet! Oh my God! What are you two doing here?" A terrifyingly familiar bray of a laugh rang across the room, followed by another enthusiastic, "Oh my God, I never expected to see you two here!"

"Son of a _bitch_."

Juliet stared up at him, her eyes deep blue pools of alarm in her suddenly pale face. "Oh no, that can't possibly be—"

Blood roared in his ears, but not loud enough to drown out the braying that grew ever more strident and piercing as it drew closer. "Who else could it possibly be?"

"What do we do?" she whispered urgently.

"Smile," he replied through clenched teeth as he turned to face if not their worst nightmare, then a close second.

"Chelsea—what a surprise."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Slight **M **ahead.

* * *

"Such a surprise," Juliet jumped in before Chelsea could say anything in response to Carlton. "What on earth are you doing here, Chelsea? You're not… married, are you?"

"_Me_? Ha!" The thirtysomething blonde Lolita threw her head back and waved a hand. "As if. No…" She smiled broadly, her dangling heart-shaped earrings bobbing cheerfully. "I'm the new activities director for the resort—as a matter of fact, I'm organizing all the Happy Couple weekend activities." She leaned in and lowered her voice. "A lot of marriages that have problems actually go kaput as a result of these weekends, so you never know…"

She glanced past them; Juliet followed her gaze to where it was zeroed in on a dapper gentleman who appeared rather spry—for an octogenarian. Catching Carlton's eye and the quick eyeroll that let her know he'd seen the poor sucker as well, she smiled and returned her attention back to Chelsea.

"Not many of the men are _really_ in my preferred age range, but you never know where Cupid's arrow might strike." Her brows drew together as if the obvious had just dawned on her.

"Speaking of which—you two weren't married last time I saw you."

Juliet tried not to flinch as Carlton's hand tightened on her shoulder. Crap—their cover was about to be blown if they didn't come up with something in a big damn hurry. Reaching up, she placed her hand over Carlton's and squeezed—hard—silently begging him to just roll with it and follow her lead.

"Actually, Chelsea—we were. Are—" She glanced up at Carlton in what she hoped was a shy manner, reaching up with her free hand to brush her thumb against the tight line of his mouth, trying to communicate _relax… relax…_ as well as making sure the borrowed diamond engagement ring and wedding band caught the sunlight streaming across the veranda.

"We've been married for a little over ten years, but we'd been going through a bit of a… rough patch when you first met Carlton."

Her voice trembled of its own volition on the words "rough patch." The best covers did tend to have a grain of truth to them and they _had_ been going through a rough patch in their partnership. One that had very nearly driven them apart for good. She shivered at the thought, leaning gratefully into Carlton's embrace as he pulled her closer.

The other woman's eyebrows were still tightly knit together as she obviously tried to scroll through what had to be a vast multitude of Trolling For Older Guys scenarios to find the pertinent one.

"That's why you were out at the bar," she finally said, pointing an accusing finger at Carlton. "With my Henryboo. Trying to pick up girls."

Deep red immediately suffused Carlton's fair skin, all the way down into the open collar of his shirt , piquing Juliet's interest. So that's where they'd first encountered Chelsea? At a bar? Trying to pick up women? Oh, this _had_ to be a good story. For another time, though.

"Uh… yeah," he began, his discomfort appearing very genuine. "We were separated at that time—"

Also true, since she was away for the weekend with Shawn. Another one of her less-than-brilliant suggestions to try to bring them closer together. To find common ground. And look how _that_ had gone.

"And I was… I don't know—trying to prove something, I guess." He gazed down at Juliet, a light entering his eyes and turning them a warm, mellow blue that left her insides feeling like pudding. "It was ultimately futile, though. There's no one else for me," he said quietly.

Juliet held tight to his hand, sliding her free arm around his waist, needing to hold him as closely as was publicly decent. As soon as the day's activities were over however, she planned on getting as _in_decent as she possibly could.

"But—" Chelsea went on, her attention returning to Juliet "when Papa was in the hospital, you were with Shawn."

"I was." The embarrassed heat Juliet felt flooding her face was all too real. "It was a huge mistake. I think I was having a brief moment of worrying about what I might have missed, having been with Carlton for so long and you know, Shawn's just so…" She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "Shawn."

As Chelsea nodded and murmured something inane about "just like his daddy," fresh heat swept over Juliet's skin, making her look away. An instant later, she felt a gentle touch along her cheek as Carlton turned her back to face him.

"No regrets," he said softly. "And new beginnings. That's why we're here. Remember?"

For a moment, their façade and their reality bled together—Carlton's low-pitched words playing perfectly into their cover, yet meant as a promise to who they really were.

"Aww… you two are absolutely adorable." Chelsea was beaming at them in a beatific manner so eerily reminiscent of Woody Strode that Juliet found herself suppressing a slight shudder. Talk about insane peas in a pod. If he wasn't already blissfully happy with Crazy Ursula and their collection of electronic toys…

"And so _perfect_—I don't know why I didn't see it before."

Juliet elbowed Carlton as he snorted, turning it into a cough coupled with an indignant glare. She arched an eyebrow, communicating that yes she was well aware the ditz had never actually encountered them in the same place at the same time, but right now, that was irrelevant.

"Chelsea, darling, there you are."

Clearly having missed the undercurrents passing between Juliet and Carlton, Chelsea squared her shoulders and smiled even more brightly. "Where else would I be?"

A stunning dark-haired woman—probably late fifties with _very_ good work done, by Juliet's trained-on-the-beaches-of-Miami estimation—glided up to their table. "Perhaps up front getting the festivities going?"

Chelsea glanced down at her watch. "Oh, _poo_."

The woman, clearly someone of some import, smiled. "It's all right—everyone seems to be enjoying their brunch and your friends here don't even appear to have started."

"Oh!" Chelsea glanced down at their empty table. "Double _poo_."In the next instant, she morphed into a terrifyingly efficient whirlwind, flagging down a passing waiter and placing orders—not bothering to consult them, but Juliet wasn't going to quibble.

"I do hope you're enjoying your stay at Whispering Pines."

Carlton's hold on Juliet relaxed into something approximating casual. "Very much." One dark brow rose in question. "And you are—"

"Goodness, my manners do seem to desert me in the presence of such a handsome… couple." She laughed, silvery-gray eyes widening in a move Juliet was damned familiar with. She edged closer to Carlton, her hold tightening around his waist and resisted the urge to grind her high heel into his instep when he sent an amused, _I-know-what-you're-up-to_ glance her direction.

He'd _better_ know. She'd play nice, but if necessary, she'd fight dirty. He'd seen her throw elbows at the roller rink and kick the shins of that damned surviving Serb.

"I'm Sharon Powers." She held a well-manicured hand out first to Juliet, who suppressed another shudder at the limp softness of the ladylike handshake, then to Carlton, who, God love him, refused to take his arm from around Juliet's shoulders and instead, offered the feline Ms. Powers his left hand which he immediately withdrew after a brief—very brief—clasp.

If she noticed what amounted to a slight, Ms. Powers didn't let on, the polite smile never once slipping. "Whispering Pines is… my little slice of heaven. The perfect place for nurturing a new romance or rekindling an old spark."

"That's what we'd heard," Juliet inserted smoothly. Exchanging a fond glance with Carlton, she added, "And we definitely needed some time away together."

"Oh?" She tilted her head, considering them. "Let me guess—high stress jobs that leave little time for personal lives?"

"They're both police detectives," Chelsea interjected cheerfully, handing Juliet and Carlton tall flutes filled with a pale orange concoction. "Bellinis," she said. "Better than mimosas, in my opinion."

Juliet hid her momentary panic behind taking a sip of the champagne-and-peach nectar cocktail.

"So you do know them?" Ms. Powers arched a curious eyebrow in Chelsea's direction.

"Oh, we're like this!" Chelsea exclaimed, holding up two crossed fingers. "Practically family. This is Carlton—" She stopped abruptly and Juliet breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, she'd forgotten, or more likely, never learned Carlton's surname, given he was way too young for her tastes.

"O'Leary," Carlton filled in smoothly although a faint tremor shook his hand where it rested on Juliet's shoulder. "Carlton and Juliet O'Leary."

"Oh my God, really?" Chelsea let loose with another one of those braying laughs that left Juliet fearing for the safety of every crystal flute in the room. "O'Leary and O'—"

"O'Leary," Juliet said firmly. Clearly, Chelsea had picked up _her _surname somewhere during the endless hospital vigil. Heart pounding, she plastered what she hoped looked like a shy smile on her face and added, "I do use my maiden name for work, just to avoid confusion, but that's where it stays. Everywhere else, I'm Juliet O'Leary."

Once more, Chelsea all but melted. "Oh my God, you two… you're so adorable. It's so hard to believe you ever had any problems."

Ms. Powers raised an eyebrow. "Problems? You two? I find that almost impossible to believe."

"We were briefly separated," Carlton offered with real discomfort, another one of those telltale tremors running through his hand, his entire body all but vibrating with tension. Juliet gently stroked his side, trying to get him to relax.

"They got married when Juliet was very young," Chelsea offered in a pseudo-confidential manner that seemed better-suited for trashy afternoon television talk shows than a sunny resort veranda. "But then they hit a_ rough patch_—" Her voice dropped dramatically as she delivered the information like she was uttering the name of a fatal disease, "And then she even dated my Henryboo's son for a while. Remember, I told you about Henry?"

"Yes, you did, dear. Often."

"My sweet Papa—that shot left him more than a little wrong in the head."

As Juliet and Carlton exchanged raised eyebrow looks, the redoubtable Ms. Powers managed a glance that was both warning toward Chelsea and sympathetic toward them. "Without meaning to pry, then, I take it this weekend is a celebration of your reconciliation?"

Juliet turned to gaze up at Carlton—her complex, irritating, wonderful, loving man with whom she'd shared so much over the years—and found herself lost in the swirling emotion turning his eyes a deep, translucent blue.

"It's a celebration of everything."

His voice was low and steady and so intimate, Juliet almost forgot they stood in the middle of a crowded veranda, surrounded by the clink of silver and china, and the soft chime of crystal against crystal as other couples toasted each other and their reasons for being here.

"So _cute_," Chelsea cooed, breaking the spell.

"You two really are rather lovely," Sharon observed with an indulgent smile. "And I'm sure, given all you appear to have gone through recently, would really rather be enjoying time alone than eating too-rich food and playing silly parlor games with a bunch of strangers."

Well, _d'uh_.

Juliet was all but ready to bolt from the veranda and straight into the large expanse of the king-sized bed in their suite, but—

They were here for a case, dammit.

She stared at Carlton, reading a range of emotion, from frustration to desire that matched her own reflected in those expressive blue eyes.

They were here for a case, dammit. Carlton's first active duty case since being shot. His first undercover case in years. He would want to play this one as much by the book as possible—would have a deep need to succeed—would wage a mighty battle between what his heart wanted and what his cop's conscience demanded.

They. Were. Here. For. A. Case. _D-A-M-M-I-T_.

She sighed and plastered a smile on her face but as she opened her mouth, ready with some falsely bright platitude along the lines of _No, no… they were absolutely looking forward to Romance Roulette,_ whatever the ever-loving hell that was, Carlton spoke.

"You're absolutely right." He tucked his free hand in his trousers' pocket and assumed a relaxed stance, the fingers of his other hand toying with the ends of Juliet's hair. "As delightful as all of this looks," he nodded at the crowded veranda, "and as much as we intended to participate in the festivities this weekend, I have to confess to an intense desire to have my beautiful bride to myself. After everything we've been through, it's almost as if we're newlyweds again and I want to savor every minute with her."

Juliet stared up at him, stunned. Sure, it fit with their cover, but it was clear reality was once again bleeding over and all but obliterating the cover. Proud, reserved Carlton was using the safety of their cover to give her his heart.

"A true romantic," Sharon said with an arch smile. "Such a rare gift."

"God, I know."

Her cop's conscience still pricked at her, but she ruthlessly shoved it to the back of her mind. She so rarely ever put herself first and God knows, Carlton never did.

Just one day.

Just one.

They'd give their all to the case—they _would_—tomorrow.

"My gift." And she was ready to unwrap him, bit by glorious bit.

"You'd do well to treasure him."

"Believe me, I do," she replied, ostensibly to Sharon Powers, but saying the words more as a promise to Carlton.

"Go on, you two." Chelsea put hands to their backs and pushed them toward the doorway. Lowering her voice, "I'll have a tray sent up later." She winked broadly and nudged a painful elbow into Juliet's ribs.

"Don't have to tell me twice," Carlton muttered. Grabbing her hand, they broke into a run toward the elevator, Chelsea's strident, "I'll make sure it's much later… I promise…" echoing through the lobby.

* * *

"We should have stayed," she sighed.

"If we'd stayed, it would have looked more suspicious." His beard-roughened cheek rubbed against hers with a pleasant, erotic friction. "Are you saying you're not enjoying yourself?" he rumbled in her ear.

Juliet smiled and rolled over, warm water and bubbles sluicing over her skin and sloshing over the side of the tub as she straddled his thighs. The bathroom lights were dimmed to a soft glow while a lone candle flickered on the vanity and champagne flutes lay tumbled beside an empty bottle on the bath mat. He'd given her everything he promised and was promising still more.

Leaning down, she whispered in his ear, "Were the shrieks and moans—both times—not enough?"

Slick, soapy hands swept up her sides to cup her breasts, his thumbs briefly teasing her nipples before one slid down her abdomen and lower still. One hand continued to torment her breast while the other gently caressed between her thighs, a lone finger sliding deep. As she moaned and dropped her head back she caught a flash of a smile—a truly devilish smile. "I've heard third time's the charm."

"Maybe fourth," she gasped. "Perhaps fifth."

A second finger joined the first, eliciting a fresh gasp. "I can go as long as it takes to convince you."

With enormous effort, Juliet stilled her lower body's motions and pushed herself up far enough to look into Carlton's eyes. Cupping his face between her palms, she brushed her thumbs along the strong curve of his cheekbones and the dark slashes of his eyebrows.

"This morning you said forever. Did you really mean it?"

He carefully withdrew his fingers from her body and splayed both hands across her back, drawing her down to his chest.

"You said you loved me."

Beneath her cheek his heart beat a rapid tattoo.

"I meant it, Carlton," she whispered fiercely. "I meant it last night, I'll mean it every time I say it, every day, for the rest of our lives if that's what you want."

His heart beat with such force she could feel the faint vibrations of his skin, his chest rising and falling with rapid intensity.

"I want," he said, low and urgent. "I'm afraid I'll want too much, Juliet."

Her heart broke a little at the naked desire in his voice. Not the manifestation of the physical desire, but the emotional desire—that part of him he worked so hard to hide. "No such thing, Carlton," she whispered. "Ever. I promise."

He sighed, long and deep, then sighed again as she rose and adjusted herself just far enough to be able to take him deep within her. Other than that, they moved very little content to hold each other, connected as closely and intimately as possible, the water's natural buoyancy providing all the motion they needed.

Time passed in a dreamy sort of haze, enveloped in the warmth of the water, their bodies rubbing together providing just enough friction and deep within her, Carlton, all life and strength. Eventually the water began to cool and Carlton withdrew before helping her from the tub. Together, they dried each other off before falling to the bed and making love, slow and with new layers of emotion—a sweetness—she'd never before experienced with anyone.

* * *

Hours later she woke, pleasantly achy and satisfied, yet simultaneously wanting more. Rolling onto her side she studied the relaxed, sleeping features of the man she'd bound herself to, for better or worse, whether they ever made it legal or not.

He lay on his stomach, sheet pushed just below his waist and exposing the long, lean line of his back, marked now by the still-angry scar high on his left shoulder. It still ached, she knew, when the weather got too cold or damp, but oddly enough, he said he was able to ignore it far more readily than his leg. Probably because it was his non-dominant arm while his damn leg was his damn leg and he kind of needed both equally.

She smiled to herself as she ran a light finger along the line of his thigh to his calf, her smile turning to a quiet laugh as his leg twitched and he buried his head in the pillow with a muttered curse.

Still so very Carlton, even in sleep. And yet not—as his features relaxed once more and a small smile replaced the frown.

She waited to see if he would wake or fall further into sleep. The Carlton of yore—or even of the week before—would have definitely snapped awake immediately, likely pulling a weapon from beneath his pillow. They had, however, taxed the hell out of both their reserves over the last several hours. She knew him, though—knew he'd argue he was still recuperating from his injuries and wasn't back up to full strength, O'Hara, and to just consider this an exercise in building stamina, dammit.

Regardless, building stamina required fuel. They'd long since burned through the trays Chelsea had sent up and while they could call for more room service, she recalled having noticed an Irish pub on the way up to the resort, no more than three miles or so away. As her mother was so fond of saying, no faster way to a man's heart than through his stomach. Never mind that with Shawn, both were inextricably intertwined, but that was no longer her issue. Her issue now was Carlton and feeding him something nice and substantial with which he could restore his depleted energy reserves. Some shepherd's pie, perhaps, or corned beef and cabbage, or maybe bangers and mash, and maybe she'd even be able to score a nice bottle of whisky. Wine was all very well and good, but good hearty food required a good hearty drink.

A grand plan, she thought as she crept through the room, quietly pulling on clothes and grabbing the car keys.

Humming beneath her breath, she eased her way out of the suite and made her way down the hall to the elevator. Two floors down the doors slid open —lost in her own thoughts, she smiled dreamily at the new passenger just before everything went suddenly, painfully, black.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**AN:** Yes, he's now officially married to Marlowe. Yes, he's happy and it's a done deal and it's wonderful to see. However, I don't want to leave a story unfinished, so this one will be seen through to its conclusion. After that... I honestly don't know what will happen. To those of you who have read or reviewed all of my **Psych** stories or sent PMs, I thank you.

Apologies for the shortness of this chapter, especially considering it took so long to get up. Carlton was being... difficult. *g*

* * *

Carlton woke slowly, wrapped in a pleasant mix of exhaustion, satiation, renewed desire, and overriding it all, contentment. Followed almost immediately by an unexpected sense of… aloneness. Instantly alert, he sat up, taking note of the empty expanse of the big bed. A close listen revealed no sounds of movement in the bathroom or the main room beyond the bedroom. Perhaps most importantly, he simply couldn't _sense_ her.

Under normal circumstances, he'd panic. His natural paranoia and suspicious nature, honed to a razor sharpness over the years would rev into high gear, imagining the worst. She'd decided it was a mistake. Had changed her mind. Gathered her things and taken off to put as much distance between them as possible. A few countries' worth maybe, along with a change of identity and perhaps reconstructive plastic surgery.

Shockingly, he felt none of that. He was curious, of course. Last thing he expected was that she would be gone, but he knew, because he knew her, she had a perfectly good reason. So, he missed her, because from now on, he would always miss her if she wasn't within arm's reach, but otherwise he remained relaxed. At least, as relaxed as he could be considering he wanted her again—now—always. Lying back, he studied the indentation in the pillow beside him and contemplated the extraordinary turn his life had taken in the last twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been unhappy—again. Had thought himself alone—again. Had failed a relationship—again. And like before, had been willing to fight to save that relationship—to do whatever it took—again, and hope like hell this time, his efforts wouldn't be in vain.

Thing was, he'd genuinely loved Marlowe—knew a small part of him did, still. It was such a difficult thing for him to do—to surrender himself to such a dangerous, volatile emotion and leave himself vulnerable to the intense and deep-seated hurt it could inflict—that he found it exceedingly difficult to let go. Couldn't ever really let go. The very few women he'd loved in his life, he carried with him, always. Even Victoria. If Juliet hadn't made her confession—hadn't _kissed _him—it was entirely likely he would've made another play for Marlowe. Would have tried to convince her of the genuineness of his feelings and would have explained—painful though it might have been for him—how he felt about Juliet. At least, the Juliet with whom he'd formed, for the first time, that bond unique to longtime partners. The Juliet with whom he'd shared so much—with whom he'd _been_ through so much. The Juliet he honestly believed lost to him forever.

Maybe he was an idiot of Spencer-like proportions, but he had a feeling Marlowe would have understood where he was coming from. And would have understood and trusted if he said he was putting _her_ first, forever, then he damn well would have meant it. Hell, if she'd asked, he would have even sacrificed his partnership with Juliet—because if he was brutally honest, until their experience in the woods, it seemed there hadn't been much of their hard-earned partnership left worth salvaging, so how much of a sacrifice would it have really been?

At least, for Juliet.

Of course, the woods had exposed the utter fallacy of that belief and then… _then_—Juliet had kissed him. And when all was said and done, she came first. Had claimed a larger part of his heart. And now, held the entirety of it in her graceful, capable, and _very_ talented hands.

All of a sudden he felt her absence, with a deep and keen ache unlike any other he'd ever experienced. With a gusty sigh, he punched the pillow beneath his head, freezing as he encountered an unexpected object. Slowly, he drew out the slightly wrinkled sheet of hotel stationery.

_Don't panic, I haven't run off. I'll never run off. Just borrowed the car keys so I could go get us a proper pub dinner. And whisky. Because I love you and want you properly fueled for our evening activities._ :-)

_J._

The paper trembled slightly in his hold as he read the note, written in her familiar looping scrawl, the words sounding just so… her. Even the paper itself seemed to carry a faint hint of her perfume, making it seem as if she was right there, simply hovering just out of reach.

_God_, he missed her. Wanted to hold her. Wanted to love her with everything he had.

_After_ a proper pub dinner, which honestly, sounded pretty damned good. And would provide plenty of fuel for the promised activities. He grinned as he reread the note once more. The woman he'd fallen in love with was not only brave, beautiful, an amazing lover, and had the world's kindest, most generous heart, she was _clearly_ also a genius.

Reassured and filled with a renewed surge of energy, he set the note aside and debated what to do next. He could lay back down and revel in the memories of their day. Except… pleasant a prospect as that was, it also had the potential to leave him eminently frustrated and liable to tackle Juliet the moment she burst through the door, possibly destroying their dinner in the process, which would leave her incredibly annoyed with him and the last thing he wanted was O'Hara annoyed with him. Carlton knew, from painfully gained experience, that way lay badness. Besides, he wasn't prone to just lying about in bed.

He could go for a run. Work off some of the nervous energy now flowing through his system, except she might return while he was gone which would also leave her incredibly annoyed with him, look to possible results of tackling her as to her reaction, _yada, yada, yada_, and, yeah… no. He would _not_ be going for a run.

A shower. Of course. That was the ticket. Despite their quickie morning shower and the not-at-all quickie midday bath, they'd still worked themselves vigorously enough throughout the afternoon that a shower would definitely not be uncalled for. Especially since Juliet was always fresh and gorgeous and he… hell, he wasn't. Best not to give her any damned excuse to think twice about what had to be a questionable choice. Never mind he was damned well aware how stupid that reasoning sounded. The woman hadn't left him yet. And God knows, he'd given her reasons over the past seven years that were far worse than not-showered freshness.

Still though—it was a good way with which to kill a few minutes. By the time he was done, she'd be back.

Except… she wasn't.

Dammit to hell.

Slow service. Clearly. Dammit to ever-loving _hell_.

He made a mental note they wouldn't be returning to that pub. Unless the food was really good. And the whisky better. A lot of things could be forgiven for an exceptional dram. And if they threw in dessert as compensation for the unacceptably slow service, well then, that was as it should be, but he knew Juliet—she was a good person and would want to reward them with a generous tip. And give them a second change at earning their continued patronage.

He _could_ be persuaded.

Dressed in fresh flannel pants and a clean t-shirt, he padded restlessly through the suite, his body thrumming with anticipation of seeing her breeze through the door, all windblown hair and rosy cheeks and the good cheer that used to irritate and mystify the hell out of him, yet now served as a balm to his generally prickly nature.

On one of his circuits through the suite he paused to straighten the bed. On another, to tidy the bathroom. During yet another, he fussed in the main room, straightening pillows that had no need of straightening and opening the sliding doors to the balcony, allowing the cool late-spring breeze to bring the scent of pine and wildflowers into the room.

Minutes ticked away and with each one, his nerves sharpened—grew more on edge. Telling himself he was being a ridiculous, overprotective weenie, he called her cell, expecting her to pick up, to admonish him for worrying, to soothe his fears.

After six rings, it went to voicemail, her sweet voice with the unexpectedly seductive rasp that had intrigued him from the first moment he'd heard it, assuring him that she was truly sorry to miss his call and she'd do her best to get back to him. Right away.

Noisy restaurant.

With slow service.

Really freakin' slow service.

You know, he _could_ call the restaurant himself.

Sure, he could look it up on his phone, but you know, the front desk probably knew exactly where there was a nearby pub. They probably even had the number easily to hand. He started to reach for the suite's phone, then paused. What if he was in the middle of calling the restaurant and she showed up? Better to just get dressed and run downstairs and get the number directly from the concierge. That way, if she blew through the front doors as he was calling, he could help her with the bags.

That made sense, didn't it?

Of course it did. He wasn't a head damned detective for no reason.

He fought back an inexplicable wave of uneasiness as he hurriedly threw on jeans and a button-down, not even bothering it tuck it in on his way out of the suite. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, he took the stairs, five flights usually an easy task for him, but taxing his recently healed leg and leaving him short of breath and aching. Fighting the limp, he made his way to the concierge's desk, quickly ascertaining the location of a nearby pub, a highly-regarded spot run by an Irish family. A pang with too many different facets to consider shot through him at the realization that she'd chosen this for _him_.

The concierge, a helpful and surprisingly unfussy sort, for his profession, had dialed and was offering him the receiver before Carlton could even ask. As the cheerful voice with a familiar lilting brogue welcomed him and asked if she could help, Carlton froze.

There, visible through the wide, pristine windows wrapped around the expansive lobby, sat a sleek, black Ford Fusion.

_His_ Ford Fusion.

Polished and gleaming under the brilliant parking lot lights.

And parked exactly where they'd left it upon their arrival the day before.

That prime spot to which he'd beat out the old geezer in a pale yellow Lexus SUV and madras golf pants. When O'Hara—because at that point he'd still been keeping her firmly in the realm of O'Hara—had gently admonished him for cutting off the old goat, Carlton had pointed out the overprivileged gasbag had been attempting to park in a space intended for a compact car. She'd lifted one of those perfect light brown eyebrows, crossed her arms, and asked in what universe was a Fusion considered a compact? His response had been that it was a hell of a lot closer and that besides, the senior citizen was probably legally blind with no real business operating heavy machinery and would likely hit someone either while attempting to park or leaving the space, so really, he was performing a public service and wasn't that their damned jobs, O'Hara?

She'd merely rolled her eyes—as she'd done so many times before; he'd huffed a breath—as he'd done so many times before, but she'd allowed him to park without further comment other than to note, after they left the car, that the Lexus _was_ parked rather haphazardly, adjoining a handicapped spot at that, and pity they couldn't issue a citation.

That was his girl, all right.

"Beggin' your pardon sir, but may we help you?"

Gaze doggedly fixed on the car, as if staring would cause her to emerge from behind the wheel, smiling and full of life yet knowing, just… _knowing_, that she wouldn't, that something was terribly, horribly _wrong_, Carlton lifted the receiver to his ear and slowly said to the tinny, lilting voice, "I'm sorry, no. You… can't."


End file.
